igns by some insinuating digs of
the poignard. The despondent chief seems comforted by this assurance of
their "most distinguished consideration," and remarks that the young
lady will no doubt be a consoling angel amidst the griefs of exile.

[Illustration]

While he has been informing the audience and his friends of the state of
his feelings, he has from time to time indulged in gestures about as
strong as we can well conceive of, but now and then when an
extraordinarily deep sentiment, and a very high note, choose the same
moment for their expression, he is obliged to poise himself on one
foot, extend the other behind him, elevating the heel and depressing the
toe, fold his hands over his breast, throw back the head and shake his
body like a newfoundland dog just issuing from the water--the refractory
note and the hidden emotion are always brought to light by these
gesticulatory expedients.

Immediately after this, the scene having changed to the castle of the
tyrant, the "Aragonese vergine" (the prima donna), is discovered
reclining on an old box covered with green baize, which long-continued
acquaintance with theatrical properties, enables the audience to
recognize as a velvet _lounge_. This lady seems to be in great
affliction, for which, however, we can discover no adequate cause,
except that she is in such an unbecoming place for an unprotected
female. The applause of the audience is overwhelming, and three very
low, but extremely graceful and lady-like curtsies which she rises "to
do," are the consequence.

The beaux are now in all the excitement that dandies dare permit
themselves to yield to, alternately exclaiming, "how grand she is! how
beautiful! heavens, but isn't she beautiful!" and then bringing down the
focus of the opera-glass on the peerless woman.

The distressed female now launches off into a recitative, in which she
expresses, in no measured terms, her utter aversion to the hateful old
tyrant, and then, falling on one knee, strikes into a cavatina, in which
she says she hopes her lover, who necessarily must be the outlaw chief,
(who again must necessarily be the tenor), will come immediately and run
off with her--a wish that is probably often entertained by young ladies
in reference to their particular lovers, but which is seldom avowed in
this public way.

[Illustration]

During the cavatina, she has been doing some very high singing, and
making a great many of the newfoundland dog shakes